


Bonnie and Clyde

by Cococonut



Series: Shadow Play [2]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cococonut/pseuds/Cococonut
Summary: “Please tell me I’m not crazy. That I’m not alone in this.”
Relationships: The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro & The Frenchman, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman
Series: Shadow Play [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074914
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Bonnie and Clyde

“Can I see an I.D. please?”

I’m still not used to it. Pulling out a card from my wallet with my picture and my real name on it. Thanks to Colonel Mallory and the C.I.A., I’ve got legit identification and a Social Security number. The server barely glances at it before handing it back to me and then does the same for Serge.

It’s funny. I’ll go into pretty much any space unafraid. I know I can’t get hurt, not really. And usually I am the most dangerous person in the room. But this scared me. I’d only been in a restaurant a handful of times, and really only very recently. I’d looked at my new dress, hanging in my closet, the tags still attached. But then I worried he’d think it was a date, so I just wore my regular clothes.

When the server’s gone, I ask, “Who are you today?”

He pulls the fake driver’s license out for me to inspect. It’s an older picture of him, when his hair was even longer and he was a little tanner.

“You don’t look like a ‘Boaz.’”

“I don’t look like a ‘Serge,’ either.”

I raise an eyebrow at this.

“It’s kind of an old-fashioned name,” he explains. “For an old man.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

He pretends to look wounded. “Do I look that old to you?”

“No, not at all. You don’t look a day over 55.”

“Merci. You flatter me, Kimiko,” he laughs.

“Where did your name come from?” I ask.

“My papa was a big fan of Serge Gainsbourg. You know him?”

I shake my head.

“Ah, my papa was...he had problems, but he had great taste in music. Gainsbourg was a brilliant musician, and really clever. He had this public persona of this like, drunken lecher. But in reality, it was all very calculated. He was actually very fastidious —until the end, anyway.”

I’m only half listening, distracted by the way his face lights up when he’s telling a story. Serge can be inscrutable when he wants to be. But right now, he’s relaxed, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a smile. I have the overwhelming urge to run my fingers along his jawline, but I don’t, of course.

“One time, Gainsbourg was on this French talk show in the eighties and Whitney Houston was the other guest. They’re chatting away—she was quite young at the time, and he leans in…” At this, Serge begins bobbing and weaving like a drunk person, eyes half-closed, miming holding a lit cigarette. Suddenly he lurches forward, just inches from my face. “And Gainsbourg goes, ‘I want to fuck you.’”

And then he laughs, but I’m so rattled by his proximity and those words it takes me a second to respond appropriately.

“He was famously ugly, and I think people expected him to behave a certain way, so he did. He was also famous for making love to the most beautiful women in the world—Jane Birkin, of course, and Brigitte Bardot, even though she is problematic now.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Hmmm?”

“Your namesake.”

“Are you saying I’m famously ugly. Or problematic?”

I shove him lightly. “Both. Stop fishing.”

“What?” He asks, the picture of innocence.

He’s so far from ugly, it’s absurd. This delicate face on a man. How is he so pretty? Sometimes it physically pains me to look at him. And right now especially, when he’s looking so sweet, those dark eyes twinkling at me.

“You know you’re not ugly. The hostess wouldn’t stop smiling at you when we walked in.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grins. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“For what it’s worth, Kimiko, you’re also ‘not ugly’ either.”

Thankfully before I have to respond, our server comes back with our drinks. They are laden with so many fruit garnishes and paper umbrellas, I don’t know where to begin. When we first arrived, I had felt a little overwhelmed by the menu. This food all seemed very foreign. And the drinks? I had no idea what these words even meant. He saw my distress and insisted we order these pastel things. We’re on vacation tonight, he said.

“Okay, what part then? The drunkenness? Oui. Bien sur.” He raises his cocktail.

“You’re not a drunk.”

“Lets see if you still feel the same way in an hour, because I plan on getting very drunk tonight.” He clinks his glass with mine. I take a sip. It’s delicious.

“You like it?”

I smile and nod. As our server passes by, Serge indicates to him that we’d like two more.

“Do you remember what you said when we first met? When Black Noir was coming for you and I was still chained up in that safe house?”

His face clouds over. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Kimiko. I never apologized for locking you up.”

I wave him off. “It’s fine. It was the right thing to do. I probably would have ripped your head off.”

“Vraiment?” He looks relieved.

I nod. “Anyway. You said something about how everyone thinks you’re mad. That you’re a gun to be pointed in a direction and fired. You remember?”

He nods. The way he’s studying my face unnerves me. When he listens, he’s really listening. I feel like he hears all the things I’ve left unsaid too.

“I think...you have a little something extra...and sometimes you need an outlet for that energy.” My eyes drop to the drinks in front of us. “I don’t think you’re crazy… but maybe you don’t always mind letting people believe the worst about you?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I worry that I’ve said too much. Even though I can speak now, I still feel like I don’t quite know how to talk to people yet. It’s always too much or never enough.

“You know, my papa, he went crazy.”

“You’re not your father.”

“And you don’t know my past. I’ve done things, Kimiko. Kind of insane things.”

“You’re not your past either.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know about that. It’s all inside me. All the things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt. I’ve got his blood running through my veins. I could be ticking time bomb, you know?”

“You could say the same about me.”

He scoffs. “No. Not at all.”

“Serge. What do you even know about me?”

“I know that you are not crazy, mon coeur.”

“Neither are you. I’ve done bad things. Terrible , unforgivable things. And I’ve got poison in my blood too.”

That shuts him up temporarily. His face softens.

“No, Kimiko. You did what you had to do to survive. You’re good. You have such a good heart. I know this.”

Now I’m shaking my head. He doesn’t see it. Won’t see it.

“How can you say such things?”

“I know it. You think I don’t notice the way that you moved anything remotely explosive in our place closer to your room and away from mine? The way you always position yourself when we go out? All so you can protect me.”

“You’re more breakable than I am.”

He takes my hand in his. “I see you, mon coeur. You have a kind heart.” He rubs my skin with his calloused thumb. He looks like he wants to say something else, the words just on the tip of his tongue, but he stops himself.

“We were supposed to be talking about you.” I smile.

He laughs, but doesn’t let go of my hand. After a while, he says, “I could play you some of Gainsbourg’s music when we get home.”

“What does he sing?”

“Let’s see...Bonnie and Clyde, he did that with Bardot...there’s Melody Nelson, about this guy who’s obsessed with...ah, never mind that. And of course, his most famous, Je t’aime, moi non plus.”

I’m pretty good with languages. I can usually pick up the various bits of French that pepper his speech through just context, but I can’t figure this one out.

“What does it mean?”

He’s got kind of a sheepish smile.

“It translates to...I love you...me neither.”

Somehow, without realizing it, we’ve inched closer and closer together in the booth, until we’re practically touching.

“It’s a song about...physical love. Kind of poking fun at people who say, ‘I love you’ during sex,” he laughs. “The lyrics are, um...pretty suggestive.”

He’s looking at me again, but there’s something different, something dangerous in it. This is a pivot point. Where I can let things fall in the direction they naturally would. Or not.

For a brief, reckless moment, I wonder what would happen if I asked him to tell me the lyrics. What would he do if I slid my hand up his thigh? What if I kissed him right now? I see all the things I could do and the ways they’d play out. And it always ends the same. Losing him.

I let go of his hand and take another sip. “What’s this called again?”

“Piña colada.”

There’s a sad, slight smile on his lips. The moment is gone. We’re safe. For now.

—

He takes me to an industrial looking building in a sketchy part of town. We walk past the line of people out front and he’s embraced by the guy at the door, before we’re waved in. A few people recognize Serge and say hello and he nods but keeps moving. We snake our way through a series of dark rooms, and then I feel it before I hear it, the heartbeat thrum of bass. He smiles at me.

“Drink?”

I nod. He looks at my slyly.

“Shots?”

I laugh. “Okay.”

The liquid burns as it runs down my throat.

“Another?” I ask.

He laughs. “Oui.”

We down another shot. Everything feels good right now. And then his hand slips into my own, and he’s pulling me to the dance floor.

We move in time with the beat. I don’t know if it’s the sweaty crush of other bodies, the darkness, the sweet numbness of intoxication, but he’s closer than he’s ever been. I let the music flow through me, like electricity pumping through my veins. There’s nothing but me and him and the beat. He looks so beautiful in the artificial glow of pink neon lights. Cheekbones and eyelashes, his sweet mouth, the corners turned up in a smile. All for me. I can’t look. It’s too much. I turn my back to him and press myself against his chest.

I can feel the roughness of his stubble against my own cheek, his hands on my waist, on my hips. The music is loud, but I can hear his heavy breathing in my ear. Is it me or is it him? I can’t tell where he ends and where I begin, and I can feel myself slipping. If I turned my head to the side, his mouth is right there. I could just...

I break free from his embrace and push my way through that mass of writhing bodies, dark hallways, couples making out in dark corners, past leering men, and stumbling girls in too-high heels, until I’m on the sidewalk, breathing in the crisp night air.

“Hey. Serge’s girl. You okay?”

It’s the guy who was checking IDs at the door. I nod and move a little farther away. I lean against the building, trying to catch my breath.

Serge stumbles out the door, looking frantic and then relieved when he sees me.

“Kimiko, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I...just needed some air.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod.

“We can go home? If you want?”

“No. You stay. I’ll take a cab. I just...I’m not… I need to go home.”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll take you home.”  
He’s already waving a cab down and guiding me to it.

“Serge, please. Don’t leave because of me.”

He waves me off. “You think I want to stay out without you?” A cab pulls over and he opens the door, gesturing for me to get inside, and then he slides in after me. He tells the driver our address and then settles back against the seat.

“Are you sure you are okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Was it something I did?”

“No.”

He lets out a breath. “Kimiko. Please don’t...you can be honest with me. Did I, did I go too far, when we were dancing?”

He looks so genuinely distressed. I could continue to deny everything. To him. To myself. But I just can’t do it anymore. The weight of ignoring my feelings is beginning to feel like a bigger burden than the feelings themselves.

“No. I liked it.”

He swallows. “Then what’s wrong?”

I think about the feel of him all around me. How perfect it was. As easy as falling. I could have let myself get swallowed whole. For a long time, there’s just the sound of us breathing.

“Please tell me I’m not crazy. That I’m not alone in this.”

I can’t lie to him, when he looks like that. Those sad brown eyes. He’d see through my lies anyway. He reads my face better than anyone I’ve ever known.

“You’re not crazy.”

“I haven’t said anything yet...but I think you know how I feel.”

“Serge...I…”

“I know I fucked things up before. I’m sorry. But Kimiko, I…think you feel it too.”

He thinks he wants me, but he doesn’t. Not if he knew who I really was. Our relationship, this unrequited...whatever this is, as deeply unsatisfying and almost torturous as it is… it’s all I have. I can’t bear the thought of losing him too.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t lose him too.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. It was a temporary lapse of judgment. We can’t...”

As soon as the words pass my lips, I regret them. He looks completely devastated, heartbroken. But he nods.

“I’m sorry, Kimiko.”

“No, Serge. You didn’t do anything—“

“I’m doing it again. Thinking that I know what you are feeling. I’ll try to be better. I let my own ...delusions get in the way.”

The cab has stopped. We’re home. We are silent as we walk the four flights up to our place. I don’t know what to do, what to say. I worry that I’ve broken things forever. That he’ll never look at me the same way again.

“Goodnight, Kimiko. I had fun tonight.” He’s smiling but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I can’t stand that I did this, that I caused him to feel such sadness. But I don’t know what else to do. It’s the only way I can protect him, and myself.

“Goodnight Serge.”

—-

I’m woken by a scream. Without thinking, I jump out of bed and run into the living room. There’s no one, no sign of a break-in. I run into his room and he’s alone, thrashing on the bed, trapped inside a nightmare.

I gently shake him, trying to rouse him but nothing.

“Hey. Hey. Wake up.”

I pat his face lightly, but he’s lost in his dream.

“Serge. You need to wake up.”

Before I know it, I’m flipped on to the bed, my hands pinned above my head, the cold metal of a gun pressed under my chin. He’s on top of me, his face inches from my own, sweaty, panting, and wild-eyed. I may have superhuman healing abilities, but I don’t want to test if I’ll come back from a bullet to the head.

“Hey. It’s me.”

His vision focuses, the wildness gone.

“Kimiko?”

He suddenly realizes what he’s holding and immediately scrambles off, dropping the gun on the floor.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I...!”

“Shhh. It’s okay.”

He’s pacing the room, running his hands over his head. “Merde! Fuck!” And then he’s back at my side, eyes darting all over me.

“Did I hurt you?”

I grab his wrist and pull him to sit down on the bed. “Stop. You know you can’t hurt me.”

“I could have killed you.”

“I’d just come back.” Maybe.

“We don’t know that.”

“Look at me. I’m fine.”

He runs his eyes over my body. I’m wearing just a thin shirt, his shirt actually. It got mixed up in my laundry and I never gave it back, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “You were screaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“You should go back to sleep. Get some rest.”

He lays back down, tucking the gun back under his pillow. His body is rigid, the tension rolling off of him in waves.

I get up to leave, but look at him one last time. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t. I can’t.

“I can stay, if you want?”

He looks at me a while and then nods. I hesitate for just a moment before making up my mind. I can’t leave him like this. I climb into the bed, under the covers. This is a line. And I’m crossing it.

Serge is laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. I place my hand on his hand, and keep it there a long time, until I can feel his breath slow.

“Have you always slept with a gun?”

“Oui. A gun, or a knife. Whatever I had for protection at the time.”

“Even when you fall asleep on the couch?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Always.” He smiles. “When I was a boy, I had a Saint Christophe medal from maman. When I lost that, a ninja turtle. I thought Michelangelo would protect me.”

“Did it work?”

“Not exactly. But I’m still here, non?” He shrugs.

He turns to face me, but doesn’t let go of my hand. We’ve held hands before, many times actually, but this feels different.

“Kimiko. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He brings my hand to his lips, slowly so I can pull away. But I don’t. He places a soft kiss on my knuckles, it’s barely anything, feather light, and yet I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me.

“No. Never, mon coeur.”

—

When I awaken, it’s still dark out. His arm is wrapped around me. My shirt has ridden up in the night and his big, calloused hand is splayed flat against the skin of my belly, holding me close to him. I can’t remember the last time I was held like this. He’s all around me. His scent on the sheets, his warmth against my back, legs twined between my own.

I’ve not had this much skin-to-skin contact with anyone in so long. My whole body is acutely aware of him, the shape of him curled around me, his hardness pressed against my soft, just thin cotton separating us.

I can feel the moment he wakes up. There’s a sharp intake of breath as he realizes where he is. Who he’s with, what he’s doing.

Before he panics and tries to pull away, I say, “It’s not just you. I feel it too.”

I press my hand on top of his and hold him to me. The line, if it ever existed, has been completely demolished. I’m tired of trying so hard to keep him at arm’s length. This is the only place I want to be. And I think this overwhelming feeling of rightness helps in drowning out my fear and doubt. I don’t think I could go back to the way things were, even if I tried.

—

I hear the safety of the gun click first.

Then, a slow clap. “It’s about time you lovebirds consummated your relationship.”

“Fucking Butcher,” Serge groans into my neck. He clicks the safety back on and tucks the gun under the pillow.

“Sorry man. I thought we should call first, but he said you’d given him the key...and...why would you give him...I’m an idiot. Oh, shit. Hi, Kimiko.” Hughie waves at me weakly from the door and then looks at the floor.

The mattress sinks as Butcher plops down on the bed. He has the stink of someone who's been marinating in cheap booze for days.

“And where were you the other week, Frenchie? After I used up my one phone call on you. I got to spend the night on a cold metal bunk while you were here playing hide the saucisson with Juliet.”

“I was busy.” He squeezes me a little tighter.

“I can see that. Alright, love?”

I give him the finger.

“Fair enough.”

“Butcher, why are you here?”

“Because you weren’t answering your mobile and  
I need a favor.”

It appears that Butcher’s trip to the local jail wasn’t entirely fruitless. His bar brawl buddy turned out to be a disgruntled former Vought employee with a hot tip on where we could get our hands on some Compound V. After a long, colorful account from Butcher, Serge reluctantly agrees to help. He kicks Butcher and an apologetic Hughie out so that I can get dressed.

“I don’t want to move from this bed.” He says quietly, his lips brushing my ear. I shiver.

“Me too.”

“This morning… Did that actually happen?”

“It’s all real.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve… This feels like a dream.”

He holds me a little while longer. And then places the softest kiss on my neck before reluctantly letting go.

He’s unashamed in his near nakedness, dressed only in black boxer briefs, as he digs around in his closet. I can’t help but stare a little. His olive skin, the way his muscles ripple as he moves, the thin trail of hair from his navel that disappears into his waistband. This is the most I’ve seen of him, and I didn’t get a chance to look much last night. The sweatpants he hands me are too big and I’m sure I look ridiculous, but evidently he approves.

“I like you in my clothes, mon coeur.”

I like it too.

The favor, it turns out, is a bomb. Several bombs, actually. In addition to Madeleines, and tarte tatins, Serge has been teaching me about explosives. I worry about him, doing this kind of work. So soft and breakable. But I don’t think anyone could keep him from it. It’s been too quiet lately. And I could sense he was starting to feel restless again.

We work for hours, stopping only once to eat the Chinese food that Hughie picks up. Serge is a little less cautious than normal. He doesn’t hide his staring. His hands linger a little longer, he takes every opportunity he can to touch me. It feels as if I’ve been burned. The heat radiating from my skin, every time he is near.

What we don’t do is talk about what happened and all the lines that have been crossed. I can still feel him against me. His legs between my own. His lips on my neck. There’s too much going on. And with Butcher floating in and out, I don’t want to have that conversation just yet.

Serge is also amped up, a sheen of sweat on his skin, pupils dilated. I don’t know what he’s taken. He’s offered me things before, but I’ve had enough poison injected into my body. I’m not about to do it voluntarily. That’s one more thing I worry about, but that’s a conversation for another day.

Butcher has disappeared again, so around 1 a.m., we call an Uber for Hughie.

“Remember, Petit Hughie. Do not jostle them too much. Or they go boom.” He makes an exploding gesture with his hands. “Okay, your Uber is here. You text me when you get home, d’accord?”

A visibly perturbed Hughie is sent off with the bombs carefully packed in a duffle bag.

It’s been a long day. I shower and when I come out, I don’t know whether I should go to my room or his. He’s in the kitchen, drinking what looks like cognac. He sees me and raises an eyebrow. I nod and he pours one for me as well.

“Tired?” He asks, handing me the glass.

I nod. “Have you heard from Hughie yet?”

“Oui. Safe and sound.”

“And Butcher?”

“I hope to not see Monsieur Charcutier for a while. Which reminds me, I need to update the security system.” He laughs. “Tomorrow. I’m dead on my feet.”

He turns those big brown eyes on me. Cherie was right. Bambi eyes.

“It’s time to go to bed,” he says.

I feel my face go red hot.

He notices my discomfort and immediately shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, no, I didn’t mean...” He glances at his bedroom.

He’s been so careful. This whole time. I see how affectionate he is with everyone. I’ve probably seen him kiss Hughie at least half a dozen times. But with me, there’s this line that he’s always conscious of. I’ve felt him test the boundaries now and again, last night and especially today, but he never pushes.

“It’s okay.”

“Kimiko, please. I say stupid, idiotic things sometimes. But I would never pressure you to do...anything. I’m happy just the way things are.”

He’s lying again.

I put a finger to his mouth, silencing him.

“I’m not,” I say.

“You’re not happy?”

I shake my head.

“I’m sorry, Kimiko, I…”

“I want...l want more…”

So there’s no doubt to my meaning, I close the space between us. I can’t quite read his face. A mix of emotions—confusion, disbelief, hope. He’s so pretty. Those long eyelashes, like a girl’s.

I do the thing that I’ve been wanting to do for weeks, months now, and place a soft kiss on his mouth. The look on his face is one of utter shock. I kiss him again, and this time, he kisses me back, slow and languid. His hands circle my waist, pulling me to his chest. He tastes of honey and smoke.

And then he picks me up. My legs wrap around him as he walks us over to the couch. I straddle him and I can feel him right there, his hardness against my heat. His rough beard on my neck, lips, tongue, the gentle nip of teeth. Holy fuck. This is happening. I pull off his shirt, and run my hands across this newly exposed skin. I want to see all of him. Touch all of him. Taste all of him. He pulls me in for another kiss, this one far more urgent. I find myself involuntarily moving against him, searching desperately for release.

“Fuck, Kimiko. You’re going to kill me,” he groans.

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go, eh Frenchie?”

We both freeze. Butcher is standing in the doorway with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Where’s Hughie?” Butcher asks.

“I sent him home with the bombs. You need to get the fuck out.”

“Alright alright. I’ll leave you to it. But can I just say—“

“Non!”

“—that I’m glad you two finally figured it out. Self-pleasure is a vital part of self-care, but too much wanking ain’t healthy. I was deeply concerned about the state of your knob, Frenchie.”

“Butcher, get out before I rip your fucking face off.” I hiss.

“Do it, mon coeur.” Serge coos, nipping lightly at my ear lobe.

“She speaks? Nice! Right, I’ll see you two love birds tomorrow.”

He swipes a container of noodles off the counter and slams the door on his way out.

“Fucking Butcher,” he murmurs against my neck.

“I don’t want to talk about Butcher right now.”

“What do you want to talk about?” He asks, placing a kiss on my collarbone.

“No more talking. Let’s go to bed.”

—

“This is insane! You’ve all lost your minds!” Hughie cries.

I’m half listening to Butcher and Hughie argue about the plan. But really, what is Hughie going to do? He’s just a soft, breakable boy. He can’t fight. He can barely hold a gun. He's had a few very close escapes, but it just takes one unlucky step. It’s kind of sweet that Butcher even lets him argue. But there’s no real fire behind his words. Butcher is just pretending to put up a fight, and poor Hughie is too naive to see that.

My boy is soft and breakable too, but I’m a little more confident that he can handle himself.

While this charade is happening, we’ve got a very distracting conversation going on silently alongside it.

“I want to kiss you,” I sign.

There are some words that I hadn’t taught him yet. Like kiss. But Serge is smart. A genius, maybe. And he catches on quickly.

“Me too.” he signs back, a sweet smile on his face.

“I didn’t say where.” I smirk.

His eyes grow wide and he swallows. The pair of pliers that he was holding clangs as it hits the ground.

“Merde!” That one he says out loud.

“You okay, Frenchie?” M.M. asks.

“Mhmm.”

Hughie is going off about how we can’t just solve all of our problems with violence. It’s worked so far. Who does he think we are?

Serge is watching me. He’s subtle about it, but I could always tell when his eyes were on me. I suppose I do the same. Whatever has been happening between us has felt...almost inevitable, from the beginning.

I tell him what else I’d like to do to him. A few more words that he doesn’t know. But by the way he’s looking at me, heavy lidded, lips parted, I think he gets my full meaning.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

By now, he’s drifted to my side, breathing heavily. The pliers abandoned. Given up on any pretense that he’s working. The look he gives me is predatory. This is something new.

“What the hell is going on with you two?”

We both turn to M.M. who is looking at us with equal parts exasperation and affection.

I shrug, the picture of innocence. Serge grabs my hand and starts pulling me to the door.

“We uh... left something back at the apartment…we’ll be back,” he mumbles. We’re barely through the door when he pushes me against the hallway wall, and his mouth is on mine.

“You…you’re driving me crazy,” he gasps, between kisses.

I slide my hand down to the front of his pants. He’s rock hard. He’s had an erection for quite a while now. Of course I’d noticed.

He lets out a low moan as I run my hand along his length. And then his mouth is on my neck, sucking lightly. He slides his hand along my waist, up my ribs, until he’s cupping my breast.

The door suddenly swings open and M.M. sticks his head out, studiously avoiding looking at us.

“I’m happy for you two. Really, truly, I am. But we can hear everything. Why don’t you go...somewhere, anywhere else, and come back when you’ve got it out of your system.”

The door slams shut.

I grin. I don’t think I’ll ever get this out of my system.

But that’s one fight I’m happy to lose.

—-

We’re barely through the front door and he’s holding my face, kissing me so tenderly. I was expecting something animalistic—a hard quick fuck against the wall. But he’s holding me as if I am something fragile, the rough pads of his fingers so gentle on my cheek. The softness that I am unaccustomed to leaves me limp and boneless in his arms. I break away, gasping for breath.

I slide my jacket off. Then toe off my shoes and socks. Then my shirt and jeans all fall to the floor, until the only thing I'm wearing is my bra and underwear. It’s a heady feeling, the weight of his eyes dragging up and down my body. I don’t like to be looked at. Especially by men. Nothing good ever comes of it. But I want him. I want to be seen by him. The look on his face is one of pure reverence. I think it wouldn’t matter what I was wearing, though I’m glad I’ve got on the lace set I’d bought the other day. He drops to his knees before me and looks up through those beautiful lashes. I’ve had sex before. This is not my first time. But this is the first time anyone has ever looked at me the way he looks at me.

He places a soft, wet kiss on the lace of my underwear. Then he slides his hands up my thighs, hooking his fingers into the elastic of the waistband. He looks up at me, a question. I nod at him, and he peels them down slowly. I weave my fingers through his hair to keep my balance as I step out of them.

“Fuck,” he lets out a ragged breath, gazing at the place between my legs. “Can I taste you?”

I nod.

He lifts my thigh over his shoulder, spreading me. I’ve never felt this exposed, this open. I can feel his hot breath on my skin. Before I can feel self-conscious, his tongue slides languorously between my legs and I’m not really thinking about anything anymore.

And then he’s kissing my lips as passionately as he kissed my mouth, licking and sucking, like a starved man. It’s unbelievably erotic, watching his tongue disappear inside me, fucking me, replaced by a finger, and then two fingers, and then three. Until finally I cry out, and crumple to the floor with him.

I’ve barely caught my breath when he stands up and carries me to the bedroom. I turn my back to him and let him remove my bra, the last bit of clothing. Then I turn around so he can look. I’ve never felt as beautiful as I do right now. I feel no shame in his gaze. I feel beloved, cherished, safe.

I sit back on the bed and watch as he strips. He’s beautiful. He climbs on to the bed, kissing his way up my legs, placing long, flat licks on my inner thighs. He spreads my legs, placing my feet flat on the bed so that I am open to him.

“You’re so beautiful.”

And then his face is between my legs again. His stubble providing the most delicious friction on my sensitive skin. It takes all my willpower to not press his face deeper inside me.

The orgasm rocks my entire body and I collapse. He rests his head on my thighs. Looking up at me and grinning wickedly, he darts his tongue out to lick again.

“Oh no, no, no. You’re going to kill me,” I say, and pull him up for a kiss.

“Oui. Le petit mort.” He laughs.

I easily flip him onto his back and then straddle him.

That wipes the smirk off his face.

I wrap my hands around his cock, and am about to slide him into me, when he holds my hips still. He squeezes his eyes shut, looking pained.

“Wait. I need to put on a condom.”

“I’ve been taking the pill. And I got tested. Just in case. I’m okay without. Are you?”

“Holy fuck. You’re a miracle. Yes. I got tested a few weeks ago. I’m clean.”

We both gasp as I take him inside me. I’m still tender and it takes me a moment to get used to the size of him. But then I begin to move. His cock is perfect. The look on his face is pure awe.

I used to think about what it would feel like to ride him, to feel his cock deep inside me. I’d touch myself at night, dreaming about this, but I never could have imagined how good it feels. The look on his face is somewhere between ecstasy and agony.

He groans. “Fuck. I don’t know if I can last. It’s too good...you feel too good…” He runs his hands along my body, coming to cup my breasts, tugging gently on my nipples.

He sits up so he can kiss me. He’s so tender, so romantic. His hand is on my cheek, caressing. The softest kisses. And yet, there’s his low voice, whispering the filthiest things in my ear. Telling me how long he’s wanted me, how good I taste. All the things he’s going to do to me. And then the feeling of him inside me. His other hand between us, gentle massaging my clit. It’s too much, too much sensation.

My eyes are on his as I come, waves of pleasure rippling through me. And then he follows me, his mouth open...breathless...out of control.

—-

“He’s not answering his phone. Neither is she. And they haven’t answered any of my texts. Should we be worried? They said they’d be right back.”

Butcher and M.M. exchange looks.

“I reckon we won’t see those two for at least a week. Maybe longer, if Frenchie’s knob doesn’t fall off.”

“Seriously? They can’t be having sex for a week straight.” Hughie scoffs.

“Let me ask you a question. Have you ever seen Frenchie eat a sandwich?” M.M. asks.

“I don’t understand what that has to do with anything? Unless this is some weird sex thing...and in that case, I don’t want to know.”

“Just answer the question.”

Hughie thinks about all the things he’s seen Frenchie eat. Noodles, pizza, sushi, dumplings, falafel, but oddly enough, no sandwiches.

“Actually, no. I haven’t.”

“And do you know why?”

“No idea.”

“Fucking baguettes,” Butcher interjects.

“Huh?”

“Baguettes. Don’t ever talk to him about bread unless you want to be treated to an hour of a lunatic Frenchman ranting about ‘What passes for bread in zhe states.’” The last part M.M. does in an eerily accurate imitation of Frenchie.

“Good to know, I guess?”

“The point is, Frenchie has lived here, how long? A decade? Over a decade? Nobody knows how old that fucker actually is. You think he’d be over it by now. But he’s not, because our Frenchie is obsessive—about bread, bombs, drugs—and her. Our boy is in love. Has been for months now.”

“Put your phone down Hughie. We ain’t seeing those two for a good long while. I guarantee it.”

—-

Everything has changed and yet nothing has changed. We take care of each other, as we always did. The main difference now is that when I want to touch him, when I want to kiss him, I do.

“Hey. I need to show you something.” I say.

“Yes?”

Maybe Cherie’s right and there’s really only one ending to this story. And even if it does end badly, I can’t live my life in fear of being hurt. It’s a fact. I will get hurt again. But right now, I’m just going to live.

I place my hand over my heart. And then place it on his.

He smiles. And then he repeats the same gesture.

“Always, mon coeur.”


End file.
